His eyes were watering from the cold and it took a moment before he saw Donovan tucked away in one of the alcoves off the main room.

'What kept you?' she asked a little irritably, looking up as he walked over. An almost empty half-pint glass and the remains of what looked like lasagne sat on the table in front of her.

'I stopped by the office for a minute but Steele caught me on my way out.' He unzipped his heavy leather jacket and dumped it down with his rucksack on the bench beside her. 'Fussing about the press as usual. "This case is high profile. You know the score. We need to come up with something fast."' He mimicked Steele's precise, clipped way of talking. 'She wants an instant solution. Thinks I can pull a bloody rabbit out of a hat.'

Donovan sniffed and offered him a glimmer of a smile. 'Well, if anyone can magic up a rabbit, you will, Mark.'

'Thanks for the vote of confidence. I wish the Witch of Endor felt the same. The fact that we have an MP as the next-of-kin is making her particularly edgy, never mind the fact that he hasn't a whisker of an alibi for the Friday morning. That counts for nothing. How's the lasagne?'

'It was cannelloni and it was delicious, thanks, but I'm afraid I had the last portion. You'd better hurry if you want something to eat. There wasn't much left when I went up.'

'Can I get you another drink?'

She shook her head 'I'm fine. I'm so tired, if I have another it'll finish me off.'

He went over to the bar where a couple of regulars were perched, deep in conversation about what sounded like the rugby.

'Evening, Silvia,' he said to the landlady who was tidying up behind the counter. 'Pint of Young's and something to eat. What've you got left?' The small blackboard above the bar was practically scrubbed clean.

'Not much, I'm afraid,' she said, giving him a warm smile. 'Had a whole crowd in this evening to listen to Humphrey Lyttelton and they've practically cleaned me out. But I can do you shepherd's pie and salad if you don't mind waiting a few minutes.' She started pumping the beer.

'That'll be great.'

'Long day?'

'In spades.'

'I'll bring your food over when it's ready,' she said with a look of sympathy, sliding the full glass towards him and wiping her hands briskly on her white apron.

He paid and carried his pint back to Donovan and sat down opposite her.

'At least we now know for sure that Greville was on the plane,' he said, taking a large draught of bitter.

'And some neighbour can confirm seeing Mrs Greville outside her house just after eight-thirty in the morning. She was apparently still in her nightie and was arguing loudly with a traffic warden who was about to ticket her car on a yellow line. They only live in Islington, so she could have definitely made it to Holland Park and back, but apart from the timing there's nothing else to put her in the frame. Also, if jealousy was the motive, why kill Rachel Tenison when it seems like the affair had fizzled out some time ago?'

'What about the S&M stuff in Rachel's bedroom?'

'When I saw Greville this evening, he claimed to know nothing about it. It will be interesting to see if his DNA turns up on any of the stuff, but for the moment I'm inclined to believe him. Also, for what it's worth, he said that the physical side of his relationship with Rachel Tenison had tailed off long before it actually ended.'

'So he really was a surrogate father figure after all,' he said, as Silvia came over with his food and cleared away Donovan's plate.

'So it seems.'

He unravelled his knife and fork from the paper napkin and, as he started on the shepherd's pie, there was a strange, musical tinkling from somewhere close by. He looked questioningly at Donovan.

She shook her head. 'Yours, I think.'

Tartaglia put down his fork and reached into his pocket for his phone. The screen showed a new message: Wn r u goin 2 kum an c me u bugger. Luv trev.

'It's Trevor. He's taken up texting as a hobby.'

Trevor Clarke was their former DCI and someone of whom they were both very fond. He had been badly injured in an accident on his motorbike and had been in hospital for nearly a month before being allowed home. Carolyn Steele had been brought in to take over, but in Tartaglia's eyes she could never replace Clarke.

'Typical,' he said, showing Donovan the message. 'Practically the only word he's bothered to spell properly is "bugger".'

'How is he?' she asked as he snapped the phone shut and turned back to the shepherd's pie.

'Making slow progress,' he said, between mouthfuls. 'At least he has Sally Anne to look after him. Poor Trevor, he'd probably kill for some of this.' He waved his fork towards the plate. 'She's put him on some sort of special macrobiotic diet and made him give up the booze and the fags.'

'I'll bet he loves that,' Donovan said, smiling.

'I owe him a visit, although I don't know when I'll get the time.'

'I'm sure he, of all people, will understand.'

'I suppose so,' said Tartaglia, although he knew Clarke didn't understand at all. He wanted to be kept in touch with every minute detail of any new case, as if what was going on in the office were his only lifeline. He still talked as though one day he would be fit and able to stride back in through the door and take charge again as normal. It saddened Tartaglia to hear him talk that way, and he wished with all his heart that it were true and that everything could be as before. But it was never going to happen and underneath he suspected that Clarke understood the reality of his situation.

'How did you get on with the poem?' Tartaglia scraped up the last mouthful of pie and tried to put the thought of Clarke, with all his wasted energy and wisdom, out of his mind.

'I Googled it and it came up right away. It's by Swinburne. He was into S&M big time, so maybe that's how it ties in. I spoke to my dad about it and he's going to put me in touch with a Swinburne expert he knows at Birkbeck College. I thought it would be interesting to get some more background stuff. If nothing else, it might give us more of a clue as to why it was put on the body.'

'Good idea. I showed it to Liz Volpe, Rachel Tenison's friend, this evening, but it meant nothing to her.'

She looked at him questioningly. 'Is she a suspect, do you think?'

He put down his fork and met her gaze. 'Not at the moment, although she has no alibi for the Friday morning. There's something odd about the two women's relationship but unless we can turn up something more tangible, I can see no real motive.'

'She inherits a flat on Campden Hill. People have killed for a lot less.'

'Yes. But think of the stuff found in that flat, think of the poem and the medical evidence. It's all about sex. The way the body was bound and exhibited after death was also sexual and ritualistic.'

'You think it's someone she knew?'

'You know what Trevor would say: try the likely before you consider the fantastic. According to everyone we've spoken to so far, Rachel Tenison wasn't gay. So, it's likely to be a man and likely to be someone she knew. The laptop and phone are both missing. Dave has been onto the ISP but they don't store copies of emails once they've been downloaded. The same goes for texts. Somebody I'm assuming the killer knew this and took them to hide their identity. It means the killer wasn't a stranger.'

'Going back to Liz Volpe, Karen told me you both had the feeling she was hiding something.'

He sighed and rubbed his face with his hands, feeling suddenly very tired. 'Yeah. I just don't know what.'

'Is she protecting someone?' Donovan asked.

'Possibly, although I don't know who,' he said vaguely, thinking back to the conversation earlier, some of her words replaying in his mind. He thought of her slouched across the table from him, legs crossed, cigarette between her fingers, with her large eyes and mane of hair. He remembered the touch of her, the feel of her, the warmth and smell...He stopped himself. He had been too long without a woman. 'I just don't get it,' he added, after a moment, hoping that Donovan had no idea what he had been thinking. 'I believe she really cared about Rachel Tenison. You saw her reaction when she heard what had happened. Right?'

Donovan nodded. 'She genuinely seemed to be in shock.'

'It's difficult to fake something like that, but some of the things she said don't add up. She said she thought Rachel was seeing someone, mentioned a text she received while they were having dinner. But that was all. She didn't know who it was and didn't ask. She said they didn't speak or communicate again, and that was over two months ago. It just doesn't make sense.'

'No, it doesn't,' Donovan said. 'Maybe she's worried that if we start unpicking things, something else is going to come out.'

'Of course, but what? Surely she wants to find her friend's killer? But she refused to give me the name of any man Rachel might have been seeing.'

'You think she knew what was going on?'

'That's what my gut's telling me. At first I put it all down to her being in shock and not thinking straight, not wanting to dish the dirt on her friend, whatever it is. But she's had time now to think things over. When I pressed her again this evening, she trotted out the same old thing: she was away; she had no idea what was going on; she doesn't know of any man. And she doesn't know anything about the S&M stuff we found in the flat.'

'It could be true.'

He shook his head. 'Do you honestly believe that?'

'We're not all Bridget Jones, you know,' she said, a little sharply. 'We don't all wear our hearts on our sleeves and confess our innermost feelings at the drop of a hat.'

'I didn't mean that,' he said quickly, wondering why she was being so unusually sensitive. 'I'm just going on my instinct, that's all. Rachel Tenison must have confided in somebody, surely, and who better than her closest friend?'

'I guess it's all a matter of degree. Some people are just more closed than others.'

'Now you're sounding like Liz Volpe. I just find it strange that she was so out of touch with what was happening in Rachel Tenison's life that she can't even give me a name.'

Donovan paused for a moment before replying. 'Maybe they weren't as close as she has made out.'

'Then why is Liz Volpe one of the two main beneficiaries of Rachel Tenison's will? Why leave her the flat, if they weren't close?'

Donovan shrugged. 'Maybe there really isn't some dark secret or some mystery man. It's not a crime, you know, to be single.'

'Of course it's not,' he said with feeling. 'But what about the handcuffs and the masks? She wouldn't have much fun with them on her own. And the pre-mortem wounds on her body, they were hardly self-inflicted.'

'OK. Point taken. But if I were into being handcuffed and screwed by a man in a mask which I hasten to add I am not I think I'd keep it to myself. I certainly wouldn't tell my sister Clare, and she's probably closest of anyone to me.'

'But Clare would still know you had some bloke around.'

'I suppose so. As we live together, I don't have much choice in the matter. But maybe if I lived on my own, I wouldn't be so open. Anyway, some men, some women, are best kept on the side.'

'Meaning?' he asked, a little surprised, wondering if she was thinking of someone in particular.

She shifted in her seat and folded her arms as though she felt uncomfortable going any further.

'You were saying,' he prompted her, now curious.

'Well, surely you've had relationships that were all about sex, where the last thing you'd want to do is to introduce that person to your family and friends. Also some people are just plain secretive; it's a thrill not having everything out in the open, isn't it? I'm sure that's half the reason why people have affairs. They like all that cloak and dagger stuff. Makes it all so much more exciting.'

He remembered what Liz had said about the affair with Richard Greville: 'I got the impression that I had spoiled her fun by finding out.' He thought of the locked box in Rachel Tenison's flat, the text message at the restaurant table and the oblique reference to a man. Perhaps being secretive was a part of Rachel's nature; perhaps, as Donovan said, it also turned her on.

'You really think Rachel Tenison had a secret life of some sort? I mean, why bother? She lived on her own. She had nobody checking up on her.'

Donovan sighed. 'That's not the point, though, is it? It's a shame Greville knew so little about what she did outside the gallery. He probably saw more of her than anyone else; but then he's a man and he's been involved with her. She would keep certain things from him.'

'What about the gallery assistant the one that was there up until a few months ago? There must have been phone calls, messages, the sort of thing a woman would pick up on.'

'Nick's dealing with it,' Donovan said. 'Gallery assistants seem to be his speciality at the moment.'

The sudden sharpness in her tone made him look at her more closely. The large grey eyes and small, neat features were impassive but he knew there was something more.

'Everything OK?'

She glanced away and nodded, picking up her glass and tipping the last sip into her mouth.

'Come on, Sam. What's up?'

She put down the glass and shrugged. 'He's just such a fucking wanker, that's all.'

'Who? Nick?' He thought for a moment, sifting through the limited possibilities. Knowing Minderedes, it was likely to be one thing, or a variation on the theme. 'You and Nick? Surely-'

She looked up, blazing, and folded her arms tightly across her chest. 'Of course not! I wouldn't touch the toe-rag if he were the last man alive! I'd rather die.'

'Then what's wrong?' he asked, amazed at the force of her reaction. Minderedes could be an annoying sod at the best of times, particularly where women were concerned, but Donovan rarely seemed to be bothered by him.

She said nothing, compressing her lips tightly, her eyes suddenly watering.

'Sam, please tell me. What's he done? You can tell me, you know. Whatever it is.'

The doors to the back room burst open, the jazz session over, and people started streaming into the bar. Donovan muttered something, which Tartaglia failed to hear. She bowed her head and he noticed tears streaming down her cheeks, saw one land on the back of her hand. Amazed, still wondering what on earth was wrong, he got up and went to her. Moving his jacket to one side, he slid onto the bench next to her and put his arm around her, shielding her with his shoulder from the rest of the room.

'Hey. This isn't like you,' he said, handing her his unused napkin. 'What the hell's the matter?' He had never seen her like this before, never normally seen her anything other than confident and upbeat, except in the dark days that had followed the Bridegroom case, when he had glimpsed another side. Then she had retreated into herself, closed off and untouchable, refusing any offers of help or counselling. But that phase had seemed to have passed.

'Do you want to talk about it?' he asked, leaning in close to her so that he was almost whispering.

After a moment, she nodded. She blew her nose and leaned her head lightly against his arm. It suddenly struck him how extraordinary it was to have two women crying on his shoulder in one evening, and for a second he was reminded again of Liz Volpe in a way that made him feel quite uncomfortable.

'So, what is it?' He gave Donovan's arm a little squeeze of encouragement. 'Spit it out.'

She exhaled sharply. 'He was chasing after Greville's gallery assistant, that's all.'

'And that upset you?' he asked, dumbfounded.

'No,' she said firmly, shifting in her seat as though uncomfortable and blowing her nose again. 'I told you, I don't care a flying fuck about that prick. It's what he said when I told him he shouldn't behave like that. He...he...' She puckered her lips and shook her head.

'What, then?'

She took a deep breath. 'Well, he said I was a fine one to talk. Me,' she added with emphasis, turning and looking up at him. 'I nearly hit him.'

Tartaglia still found himself struggling to understand what she meant. Then it came to him. 'You mean about...?'

'About Tom. Yes.' She stopped him before he could say the killer's real name, as if using his codename was easier to take. Stunned at Minderedes's lack of sensitivity, extraordinary even by his standards, for a moment Tartaglia was carried back to that time three months before. What had happened still hung over both of them like a dark, poisonous cloud. In a quiet moment, Donovan had once confided in him how she dreaded being on her own, dreaded going to sleep, fearing the dreams, the nightmares that would come. It had rocked her self-confidence. Rightly or wrongly, she blamed herself for everything that had happened and nothing that he, or anyone else could say or do could make it better.

'I screwed up big time, didn't I?' she said, suddenly turning her small, taut face towards him again, like a child demanding an answer. 'It's what they all think, isn't it? It's what they're all saying. Behind my back.'

'No. No, it's not,' he said softly, shaking his head. Nobody would dare say such a thing within his earshot and he couldn't believe that any of them actually thought it either. He pulled her closer to him and ruffled her short, spiky hair with his hand. 'You're wrong, Sam. Nobody thinks that. Please believe me.' But as she looked away he could tell that she wasn't convinced and he didn't know what else to say.

'They don't understand,' she mumbled, starting to cry again. 'They have no idea.'